CHAPTER 2
Kane
THE PRESS CONFERENCE wraps up with me fielding softball questions about defensive strategies and my "excitement to join the organization," all while internally calculating exactly how much damage control I'm going to need to do after that spectacular opening act.
My father is going to have a field day with this.
I can already hear his voice—that particular tone he uses when he's "disappointed" which somehow sounds worse than when he's actively pissed. You let some nobody podcaster make you look reactive. That's not how a Marcus handles media.
Except I didn't let him do anything. The discount podcaster—Becker, according to the roster sheet I memorized on the flight—broadcasted his running commentary through the goddamn PA system like he was providing DVD commentary for my life.
What was I supposed to do, ignore it? Pretend I couldn't hear him comparing me to tax forms?
I shake hands with the GM, nod at the coaching staff, and make my escape before anyone can corner me for follow-up questions about my new "rivalry." As if I have time for a rivalry with someone whose biggest career accomplishment is probably that time he didn't get benched for an entire game.
My phone buzzes as I navigate the hallway toward what I hope is the locker room.
Dad: We need to talk about that press conference.
I silence the notification without responding.
Another buzz.
Dad: Don't ignore me, Jayden.
I've been in Chicago for exactly four hours, and he's already monitoring my every move from Vancouver. This was supposed to be my fresh start—new team, new city, far enough away from his media empire that I could actually breathe without worrying about him critiquing my inhale-to-exhale ratio.
That plan lasted approximately one press conference.
I'm studying the directional signs on the wall—locker room is apparently left, training facilities right, emergency exits everywhere for when I inevitably need to flee the country—when I hear footsteps behind me.
"Kane!"
I turn to find a tall, broad-shouldered guy in Wolves merch striding toward me with the confidence of someone who's used to people listening when he talks.
His expression is somewhere between amused and exasperated, which seems to be the default state of everyone I've met so far in this organization.
"Marcus Washington. Team captain," he introduces himself, extending a hand. "Welcome to the Wolves. Hell of a first impression."
I shake his hand, his grip firm but not aggressive. "Not exactly how I planned to introduce myself to the team."
"Yeah, well." He gestures down the hallway. "Conference room's this way. We need to have a chat."
Fantastic. It's been four hours, and I'm already getting called into the principal's office.
The conference room is standard—big table, uncomfortable chairs, a TV mounted on the wall currently paused on what looks like a freeze-frame of my face mid-sentence at the press conference. Washington takes a seat at the head of the table and gestures for me to sit.
"Am I in trouble?" I ask.
Washington's mouth twitches. "Should you be?"
Before I can formulate a response that doesn't sound like a guilty confession, the door opens again and Becker walks in.
He's changed out of the casual clothes he was wearing earlier into a Wolves hoodie and jeans, his dark blond hair still sticking up in places like he's been running his hands through it.
Up close, he's got these sharp blue eyes that are currently bouncing between me and Washington like he's trying to calculate his odds of survival.
"Cap," Becker says, his voice carefully neutral. "You wanted to see me?"
"Both of you, actually." Washington gestures to the empty chair next to me. "Sit."
Becker's eyes land on me, and for a second, he narrows them in an exaggerated fashion of a cartoon character, before he schools his expression into something bland and takes the seat. He's careful to leave a solid foot of space between us, like I might be contagious.
"So," Washington says, leaning back in his chair with the air of someone about to deliver news that's going to make everyone uncomfortable. "Want to tell me what the hell that was?"
"He started it," Becker says immediately, which might be the most childish thing I've heard from a professional athlete, and I've spent years in NHL locker rooms.
"I didn't start anything," I counter. "You were broadcasting your little tirade through the PA system."
"I didn't know it was connected!"
"How do you accidentally broadcast—"
"Gentlemen." Washington's voice cuts through like a referee's whistle. "I don't actually care who started it. What I care about is that video of you two is gaining traction and it's not even noon."
Becker pulls out his phone, and I watch his eyes go wide. "Holy shit. I have fifteen thousand subscribers now. That's—" He catches himself, looking up at Washington. "I mean, that's concerning. Very concerning. Professional concern."
"Uh-huh." Washington doesn't look convinced. He pulls up his own phone and turns it toward us. "ESPN's already made a highlight reel. You're trending on Twitter. The team's social media is blowing up. PR is having a field day."
I watch the clip on Washington’s phone—thirty seconds of me and Becker trading insults like we're in a middle school cafeteria instead of a professional press conference.
The comments are exactly what I expected: half the internet thinks it's hilarious, the other half is already writing think pieces about "toxicity in hockey culture. "
My father's going to love this.
"Look," Washington says, setting his phone down. "I'm not here to lecture you about media professionalism—that's PR's job, and trust me, they will. I'm here to tell you how we're going to fix this."
"Fix it?" Becker sits up straighter. "What's there to fix? Kane and I will just... avoid each other. Easy."
"Can't do that," Washington says, and there's something in his tone that makes my stomach drop.
"Why not?" I ask, though I'm pretty sure I'm not going to like the answer.
Washington pulls out a folder—an actual physical folder, like we're in a legal drama—and slides it across the table. "Training camp agenda."
I nod slowly, not seeing the problem yet.
"Cabin assignments were done weeks ago." He opens the folder to reveal a sheet with names and cabin numbers. "Kane, meet your roommate for the next three weeks."
My eyes scan down the list until I find my name.
Cabin 12: K.J. Marcus, R. Becker.
Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me.
"No," Becker says flatly. "Absolutely not. Cap, come on—"
"I'm not rooming with him," I interrupt, pointing at Becker without looking at him. "Isn't there another cabin? A closet? I'll sleep in the equipment room—"
"The assignments are final," Washington cuts us both off. "And before you ask, no, I'm not changing them just because you two decided to audition for a reality show at your first press conference."
"This is punishment," Becker accuses. "You're punishing us."
"I'm giving you an opportunity," Washington corrects, and the way he says it makes it clear this conversation is over. "Three weeks to work out whatever this is before the season starts. Either you figure out how to coexist as teammates, or you spend the entire season on the bench. Your choice."
I glance at Becker, who's staring at Washington like he just announced we're being shipped to Siberia. His jaw is tight, and he's gripping the edge of the table.
"Maybe Kane can learn to be less robotic," Washington continues, his tone almost cheerful now, "and maybe you can learn to be more professional. Think of it as character development."
"I don't need character development," I mutter.
"Your press conference performance suggests otherwise," Washington shoots back.
Becker makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be the beginning of a mental breakdown. "This is insane. You know that, right?"
"Consider it motivation to work out your differences." Washington stands, gathering his folder. "Or don't. But you'll do it while sharing Cabin 12."
I lean back in my chair. Three weeks. In a cabin. With the guy who just publicly mocked me to thousands of people and counting.
"Cabin 12 better have good wifi for when I need to document this disaster," Becker mutters.
"It doesn't," Washington replies without missing a beat. "That's the point."
He gets up and heads toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the handle. "Bus leaves at oh-six-hundred tomorrow. Don't be late. And for the love of God, try not to kill each other before we get there."
The door closes behind him with a decisive click.
Silence fills the conference room like water in a sinking ship.
I should say something. Anything that’s at least semi-professional and mature. Instead, I turn to look at Becker, who's still staring at the closed door like it might open again and reveal this was all a joke.
"Three weeks," he says finally.
"Three weeks," I confirm.
"In a cabin."
"Apparently."
"With you."
"The feeling's mutual."
He turns to face me fully for the first time since sitting down, and up close, I can see the faint freckles across his nose. His eyes are more green than blue in this light, and there’s a small scar on his chin.
"Look," Becker says, and his voice has lost some of its earlier edge. "I didn't mean for the PA system thing to happen. I was testing audio levels earlier and forgot to disconnect."
It's not quite an apology, but it's closer than I expected.
"And I shouldn't have called you out in front of the media," I admit, because apparently we're doing this. "That was... reactive."
"Reactive," Becker repeats, and there's a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. "That's one word for it."
"You called me a hockey textbook."
"I said you talked like a hockey textbook. There's a difference."
"Not a meaningful one."
The smile breaks through fully now, and it transforms his entire face from sharp and defensive to something almost friendly. "Fair point."